Friday, July 25, 2014

I failed to corpsify myself last Thursday. The Super Sibling Squad is smarter than me. They put together the clues, figured out which social network service I was using to schedule updates, and grabbed the addy of the hotel from what was supposed to be my final update.

Room #666

The Cheap Hotel

On the Local Name Road

Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favo(u)rite.

(My updates have an international audience.)

I also left a note in the room: “I was on Earth all along!”, blowing all my best material on my presumed death.

I was going to die on apple vodka and store brand benadryl, neither of which I will *ever* touch again. If I had been serious I would have waited out the credit check and gotten a tank of nitrogen, but I get lazy when I’m suicidal. But as the title says, I failed, praise Elvis, Bettie, and all the saints.

Dead is cold, dark, and lonely. I was never happier than when I heard a voice telling my mother that I was breathing on my own and the tube was coming out. When the light and air came back my easy-to-love mother was there. I apologized to her and cried a lot.

There’ll be a real bill to play, but until then my family is paying an emotional price for my idiocy, poor health, stress induced problems, tears, heart-break, all on my head. I’ve even managed to piss off the entire interfacebooknet. Sorry not-imaginary peeps.

Listen to Uncle Ray, kids, find someone to talk to. Unless you’re actually in hospice there’s a way home. You may feel like a giant wuss for, y’know, having ‘feelings’ and shit, but you’ll be a *live* wuss and chicks dig that ‘feelings’ shit.

And death is a cold, dark, lonely, place, and there is no way, *no way* home.